


New Haunts

by forensicromantic (fedorakitty)



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ghosts, M/M, No Murkoff Asylum Incident, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:37:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedorakitty/pseuds/forensicromantic
Summary: Miles Upshur has just moved into a new apartment. Unluckily for him he winds up with an unintended roommate, one who’s already dead. Miles is being haunted by Waylon Park, a man who died in this apartment in an unsolved murder two years ago. As Miles struggles to uncover just who Waylon is and how he died, he’s also faced with his own growing attachment to the man.In other words, it’s a ghost fic. Miles is nosy, Waylon’s been murdered, and they both may be a little gay for each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first camerashipping fic and honestly I'm so excited to be posting it. This first chapter is mostly just setup so there's not a whole lot going on but I promise there's more to come! I should be putting out updates fairly regularly, so enjoy!!

“Thank god this is the last of it,” Miles said, nudging the apartment door shut with the box in his arms.

“Man, why are you complaining? It wouldn’t have taken so long if you didn’t have so much shit,” Chris retorted, setting the boxes he had in his arms on the floor. Miles had tried to tell him he could just carry one at a time, but instead Chris loaded up his massive arms with at least three each trip. Fucking showoff.

“You offered to help me move, I would have been fine lugging all my shit on my own.” Miles set down his box on the kitchen counter. 

“Yeah and you’d still be moving boxes up and down the stairs for hours, princess.” Chris flashed him a grin.

“Uh, I so would not be. I’m sufficiently jacked alright?” Miles smirked back through the good natured ribbing, “Perfectly averagely ripped. Not all of us can be ungodly behemoths like yourself.” He and Chris had been tight since his college years. While Miles was establishing himself as a journalist, Chris had turned out to be one of the only people willing to handle Miles through his bouts of inconsistent communication and what some may call “unhealthy obsession”. He liked to call it dedication.

“Yeah man, whatever you say.” Chris followed Miles into the kitchen, looking around, “This place is pretty nice,” he nodded appraisingly.

Miles nodded in agreement, “Yeah, and it’s even cheaper than my last place. Guess getting kicked out was a blessing in disguise.” His mind flashed back to the conversation he’d had with his building manager and winced. How was he supposed to know that trapping another tenant in the elevator for 6 hours would get him in trouble? There was nothing explicitly stated in his contract to suggest it wasn’t appropriate tenant behavior. Besides, the consequential noise complaints could hardly be pinned on him. If that bastard hadn’t been screaming for Miles to let him out then noise wouldn’t have been an issue. Oh well, his old place was a shit hole anyway, and getting the boot was worth it to see that bastard Trager squirm for any amount of time. His recollection was interrupted by Chris’s sudden laugh.

“Uh oh,” Chris said, a shit eating grin of realization sneaking onto his face.

“Uh oh, uh oh what?” Miles asked, leaning against the counter.

“Nice place, dirt cheap, mysterious carpet stains. You know what that means.” Chris wiggled his thick fingers and began to poorly mimic ghoulish moaning.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m serious man, you’re totally haunted.” Chris grinned.

“I’m serious too, you’re totally an idiot.” Miles rolled his eyes, then paused, “Wait, what the fuck do you mean mysterious carpet stains?” 

“The stain in the living room, by the couch? It’s totally blood.” Chris answered as Miles brushed past him and into the living room. “How did you miss that, aren’t you, you know, an investigative journalist? Where are those keen observational skills you use when investigating shit?” 

“The carpet at my old place was more stain than carpet, so pardon me for not noticing” Miles circled around to couch, “Besides, I usually only take notice of the stains attached to good memories.” He threw a wink over his shoulder at Chris, who groaned accordingly.

“Lady Killer Upshur strikes again.”

“Not just ladies Chris, I don’t discriminate. If you’re gonna slut shame me use my appropriate title.”

“Oh I’m so sorry, Man-Whore Upshur strikes again.”

“Thanks,” Miles bent down to the large spot on the carpet, “Huh.” It was a large stain but it was faded almost to nothing, as if someone had tried their damndest to get it out but couldn’t quite manage. Miles supposed it could have been blood, but then again it could have been anything. Wine, grape juice, a freak pasta accident even. “It’s not blood.”

“It’s definitely blood. Your ass is getting haunted to shit.”

“The only thing my ass is haunted by was my hookup from last night,” Miles deflected, raising himself from the carpet and heading back into the kitchen.

“Upshur, you truly are a disgusting specimen.” Chris replied.

“Right back atcha, Walker.” Miles opened a box in the kitchen, praying to find where he put snacks in the move. First box was pots and pans, no dice.

“Well I think I’m gonna head out.” Chris said, heading toward the door.

“Goodnight Chris, try not to commit vehicular manslaughter tonight.” He opened a second box, pretzels were resting on top. Score.

“If I do I’ll come back and trade license plates with you. I know it’s a life long dream of yours to be a prison bitch.” 

“Ha, I’d never get convicted, I’m too damn charming.” Miles smiled through a mouthful of pretzels.

“Like they’d put a scumbag like you on the stand.” Chris retorted.

“Then I’ll fucking blow the entire goddamn jury, is that what you wanna hear, Walker?”

Chris just laughed, “Night!” He called, before accidentally slamming the door behind him. “Sorry man!” Miles heard the muffled call from the hallway.

After his friend was gone, Miles took a deep breath, looking around his new place. He still had a fuckton of unpacking to do, but god he was fucking exhausted. Deciding he’d just bring the essentials in with him to the bedroom for now and leave the rest for tomorrow, he strolled back to the living room and picked up the box labeled “Beddy Bye Shit”. Perfect, if only he’d labeled the rest of them. But sharpies had more important uses than labeling boxes. Like drawing dicks on the doors of annoying building managers for example. 

He headed into his bedroom and began unpacking his shit. Through the menial task his mind wandered back to his conversation with Chris. There’s no fucking way he was haunted, that shit would be ridiculous. But it was weird that this apartment was so cheap. Especially because word around the building was because no one had lived here for more than a few months for the past two years. Maybe he’d dig around tomorrow, see if he could track down any previous tenants, ask why they moved out. Maybe there was something up with the building, maybe there wasn’t. Either way, doing some digging would give him peace of mind, and maybe shut Chris the fuck up. 

As Miles finished unpacking the first box, he realized he didn’t have his camera. It wasn’t a huge deal, but he wanted to put it on the charger before tomorrow. He still thanked his lucky stars he’d finally converted to rechargeable, having a battery operated camcorder was fucking idiotic. Going back into the living room, he looked around for the box. He jerked back slightly as he saw the box he was looking for had toppled over and its contents were spilled all over his floor.

“Fuck.” He knelt down. “Motherfucking what?” How had this even happened? He picked up his camcorder and inspected the screen. At least it didn’t appear to broken. Then, he noticed the small red light blinking in the upper corner. “Huh, fucking weird.” It was recording. Stopping the recording, he pressed the arrow pointing left to review the footage. He assumed the camcorder had begun recording before the box toppled over, as the screen was mostly black with only a little light showing from being in the bottom of the box. Suddenly, the image on screen lurched as the box was tipped over and his camcorder skittered across the floor. It seemed to stop for a moment, before slowly rotating, coming to a rest pointed adjacent to the couch. 

“This is fucking wild.” Miles whispered to himself, stopping the video. 

Maybe a tenant from downstairs had knocked against their ceiling, causing the box to overturn. It had to be something like that. Miles tried to put his mind at ease before scooping the contents back into the box and returning to his room. He plugged the camcorder into the wall charger and set it on the bedside table. He ran his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. Chris’s words came back to him now, stupid finger wiggling and all. 

“Get ahold of yourself Upshur, you are not bunking with Caspar.” Miles tried to reassure himself. 

Letting his fingers slip from his hair he padded into the bathroom to get ready for bed. He was fucking exhausted. He wanted to put this damn day out of his mind, he couldn’t do shit until tomorrow anyway. Tomorrow he would go track down some tenants and find a goddamn explanation for this bullshit. Because there had to be an explanation, he definitely was not fucking haunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is my lifeblood!! if you wanna come say hi on tumblr i'll love you forever goghl.tumblr.com  
> have a rad day you groovy cats


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's chapter 2 guys!! i hope you enjoy

Miles was dreaming. He was back in his old apartment, with its dingy walls and sagging couch that almost touched the floor in the middle. He was on his laptop working on something. He could feel his fingers tapping against the keys, but he couldn’t quite tell what he was typing. Miles kept getting distracted by a draft that drifting in from the right. He found this a little strange, since the windows in the apartment weren’t on that side. And anyway, he was pretty sure he’d closed the windows, he barely ever had them open. Oh well, old crappy apartments were notorious for weird drafts. 

Ignoring the freezing sensation creeping up his side, he kept typing away when suddenly his screen went black. _What?_ he thought to himself, _No no no. Fuuuuck._ He tried to remember the last time he’d saved his document as he frantically tapped on the power key. There’s no way his laptop should have died now, it had just been on 70% battery, or something close at least. But he couldn’t think of another explanation for why his screen would suddenly black out. A few more taps to the power button and quick pleas to the man upstairs, his screen flickered and came back on. 3% battery. Great, he’d have to go grab his fucking charger cord. Before he got up from the couch, he flicked his eyes down to the time. The clock read 2:14. Huh, now that was definitely weird. Last time he checked hadn’t it been mid-evening? Looking to his left he saw that it was indeed still light out, the sun just beginning to slip in the sky. His time display must have been wrong. Crazy wrong. His computer better had not been going out, he needed it for work.

As he stood to walk to his bedroom, he suddenly found himself in his new apartment. HIs bedroom was mostly bare with only a few boxes scattered throughout. He looked around for his charger cord and realized it must have still been in one of the boxes in the living room. He turned to walk back and noticed that it was much darker now. The overhead lights had been shut off, and the light from the sun was gone as well. He noticed a faint glow from his living room, probably his laptop screen. He shook his head as he padded back to the living room. When the couch came into view, he stopped short letting out an exclamation of surprise. There was a blond man sitting on his couch.

“Who the fuck are you!?” Miles demanded, taking another step back. The man looked up at him with wide blue-green eyes, glistening in the low light. Miles swallowed, “Hey fucker I asked you a question, you have about negative six seconds to answer before I-“

“You have to help me, please,” The blonde man said, lip trembling. Miles took a hesitant step forward and the other man shrank back, curling in on himself, “Please, I’m sorry I’m here but I can’t leave and I need you to hel-” Miles cut him off.

“I asked who you were.”

The man stared back at him, struggling for a moment before he managed to force out, “My name’s Waylon.”

Miles woke up. He was covered in sweat and breathing hard, with a cold ache settled heavy in his chest. Groaning, he rolled over to check the time. 2:14. He’d barely been asleep for two hours. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. That dream was fucking weird, he didn’t even know anyone named Waylon. Must have been all of the ghost talk from the night before. Sighing in annoyance, he peeled off his sweat soaked shirt before sinking back beneath the covers and trying to force a few more hours of sleep.

 

When he woke up again there was light coming in through the window. Fuck, he should have put up curtains before he passed out last night. Grumbling, he sat up and ran a hand through his sleep mussed hair, trying to put together a timeline of the day he had ahead. He need coffee, a shower, more coffee, then work for a few hours and probably finish unpacking. He also had to track down some old tenants to get some answers about this place. Stretching, he clambered out of bed before heading into the kitchen to start his morning routine. 

It was a few hours later when Miles finally tracked down some of the fuckers who lived here before him. The man who lived here immediately before Miles had left no forwarding address, but there was a another who lived here before him: Blake Langermann. After digging around he found an email for Blake and decided to shoot him a message.

_Hey,_

_Name’s Miles Upshur, I moved into the place you moved out of 4 months ago. Had a few questions about why you moved out._

Miles hesitated, he was unsure of how much to disclose. Finally he decided to say fuck it and just write what he wanted. 

_There’s been some majorly weird shit going down, and I’m willing to bet you know what I’m talking about. Hope to hear from you-_

_-Miles_

There, that oughta do it. Now he just had to hope that Blake answered him. Miles wasn’t above doing some light stalking for answers, but it was so much more convenient if people just complied. Either way, Miles figured he wouldn't get a response for awhile yet, and decided to eat some lunch and do more work while he waited.

He headed into the kitchen to fix himself something easy, and found his mind wandering back to the dream he had last night. What the fuck had that been? The weird shit wasn’t that atypical he supposed, after all most people’s dreams are one pinballing hellscape after a-fucking-nother, and he was no exception. No, what had been weird about it was the man at the end. Waylon. First off what the fuck kind of name is Waylon? Miles didn’t think he’d ever known a Waylon. Also, his face, he had looked so scared and...desperate almost? Miles remembered reading that you could only dream about faces you’d seen before, but he couldn’t remember having seen Waylon before. And he’d remember a face like that-

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash from the other room. He rushed back to the living room and saw that his coffee table had been toppled over, and his laptop and notebook were now on the floor.

“Fuck!” He rushed over to pick up his computer, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw that the screen was intact. Bending down he picked up his notebook and paused. It had been opened to a page in the middle, which should have previously been blank. Now, there was a very shaky line drawn near the top of the page. Miles frowned and brought the page closer to his face, but he couldn’t discern anything about it. When the table fell over the pen must have just dragged across the page. Speaking of which...

How the everloving shitballs did the table fall over anyway? _I’ll take “You’re Haunted, Jackass” for 500, Alex,_ he thought to himself, righting the table. He sat back down on the couch, placing his laptop and notebook to the side. His pulse was racing and he struggled to keep his breathing even. So he might have a ghost, so what? He could handle it. Besides there wasn’t any direct proof that it was definitely a ghost. Maybe a cat had climbed in through the fire escape and knocked the table over, and now was just hiding in his bathroom now or something. The non-ghost possibilities were plentiful and vast. 

Miles waded deeper and deeper into Denial River and refreshed his email. A smile crept onto his face, Blake had responded. 

_Hey Miles,_

__

__

I’d be willing to talk, but I’d rather do it in person. Corner Cafe at 4pm this Thursday work for you? 

_-Blake_

Miles frowned. Why’d he want to meet in person? Oh well, either worked for him. He shot Blake back an affirmative response and leaned back against the couch. Well at least he’d be getting some answers. On Thursday. Fuck. It was Sunday, which mean his meeting with Blake was half a week away. Miles groaned and sunk further into the couch. This sucked. He was itching for answers now, but he didn’t have any other leads. He supposed he could channel this motivation into work or, god forbid, unpacking. Sighing in resignation, he got up and began to unpack the remaining boxes

 

The rest of the week passed in a similar pattern. While Miles didn’t have any more dreams, he did wake up around 2 a.m. every night. In fact, he woke up specifically at 2:14 a.m. on the motherfucking dot every motherfucking night. On Tuesday he’d gone to sleep after 2 and found that he hadn’t woken in the night, so he concluded whatever was up was related to that particular time, and not just some force determined to interrupt his sleep. 

Oh so luckily for him, interrupted sleep was not the only strange occurrence this new apartment had to offer. There were multiple times where he’d walk into his kitchen and find all of his cabinets had been opened. Sometimes the water was running when he had been sure he had turned off the tap. Miles would also find his journal open to blank pages with only a few unsteady lines penned on the paper. Perhaps most annoyingly, his shower temperature was impossible to regulate. One moment it’d be nice and steamy and the next he would be doused in icy water, and for once he was unwilling to blame it on piss-poor plumbing. 

He was fucking grateful as shit when Wednesday night rolled around. Tomorrow he’d be able to get some damn answers. He fell asleep around midnight, but he didn’t sleep for long. A loud ringing woke him up in the small hours of the morning. Miles jolted up from bed in confusion, looking around before he realized that the ringing was coming from his phone. He could have sworn he put it on silent. He pressed the device to his ear and answered.

“Hello?” he said, voice still scratchy with sleep.

There was no answer on the other end, just static.

“Hello?” he asked again, sitting up straighter, annoyance chasing away sleep.

No voice joined his on the other end of the line, but now he could hear breathing and something that sounded like, sobbing? The static popped louder.

“Look bud it’s gotta be like 3 in the morning, why the fuck are you calling me?” Miles said.

“I,” a voice began. Miles felt his blood run cold. He recognized that voice from somewhere. “I need you to help me. Please.”

“Who is this?” Miles demanded, fully awake now.

“I already told you,” the voice insisted, small and still faintly choked with sobs.

Miles sighed in annoyance, “Tell me again.”

“My name’s Waylon, Waylon Park.” Miles froze, fears confirmed, “I don’t have long please you have to help-” The line went dead.

“Hello?” No sound, not even static. “Hello? Fuuuuck.” Miles hung up and laid back down, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He checked the call list, fully intending to call back but then saw that there was no record of a call. “What the actual shit?” He frowned, sliding the screen up and down just to make sure. But there was no record of any call tonight. Just as he was about to darken the screen, the time caught his eye-- 2:14. “Okay, fuck this.” He pulled up his browser and typed a name into the search bar, Waylon Park.

The first result made Miles fill with dread. An article titled, “Waylon Park, 26, Found Murdered in Leadville Apartment”. 

_Well damn,_ Miles thought to himself, _Goddamn Upshur you are totally McFucking haunted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So question since this is my first fic: would you guys prefer updates of this length about every day or two, or longer updates every few days? Once again, feedback is my lifeblood. I hope y'all have a spiffy day!  
> edit: new chapter will be out monday B^)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! We see Blake this chapter and I'm super nervous about writing him since I don't have too many solid headcanons but I hope you enjoy anyway!

Miles didn’t go back to sleep that night. Instead, he spent another hour reading through every article he could find detailing the unsolved murder of Waylon Park. The man had been killed in his apartment, now Miles’s apartment, a little over two years ago. The killing was…brutal to say the least. He’d been stabbed sixteen times in the torso, and his genitals had been mutilated. Several articles revealed that the murder scene had been staged, posed even. Not including colorfully descriptive language, Miles couldn’t get a clear view of what the scene had been exactly. He couldn’t find any crime scene photos, those would probably require a more in depth search, but that was a task for another night.

Aside from details of the crime, small details about Waylon’s life before--well before it ended--were sprinkled throughout. Waylon was 28 years old, and he was a software engineer. From what Miles could tell he was fairly quiet and kept to himself. There wasn’t any mention of family in the articles aside from one that featured a short interview with Waylon’s long term girlfriend, Lisa. Miles noted with a hint of amusement that she seemed more angry than grief stricken. He could relate to that; he was no stranger to turning emotional baggage into an angry determination. At least anger was productive. She had briefly lamented the loss of her partner, but mostly it was accusations at law enforcement for not being able to catch the bastard who did this. Miles smiled as he scanned the article:  
__  
**Lisa Everett, Mr. Park’s long term girlfriend, sat down with us to discuss this loss.**  
_Ms. Everett: The scene was a god damn mess.You can’t tell me there wasn’t DNA or something. It’s like those jack***es aren’t even trying._  
_Interviewer: Are you insinuating that the police may be involved?_  
_Ms. Everett: I’m “insinuating” that someone’s not doing their damn job._  
  
This Lisa chick was alright, and Miles had to agree with her. The scene was clearly the work of a disorganized killer who took the time to stage the body, but not much else. It was hard to believe that the police didn’t manage to pin it on some sick fuck. Miles decided to try to get in contact with Lisa. After he talked to Blake. Shit, he had the meeting today. He looked over at the clock and saw that it was the early hours of the morning. He really should try to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep so he didn’t look completely dead when he talked to Blake.

Although, with any luck Blake might be used to talking to the dead. 

He laid on top of his covers, staring at his ceiling and watching the shadows move across the plaster. Every time he shut his eyes he could hear Waylon’s quiet pleas to help him. _How am I supposed to help you?_ Miles thought bitterly, _I think it’s a little late for that, I mean you’re already dead._ He wasn’t sure what he could even do in this situation. What was it that people normally did when they were haunted? He tried to think back to everything he knew about ghosts, which admittedly, wasn’t a lot and mostly came from 1990s horror movies. Miles had a sinking feeling that even the sweet knowledge of Patrick Swayze wouldn’t help him in this situation.

Finally around 6 a.m. he gave up on sleep and decided he might as well start his day. Waiting to see if any of the shadows on his ceiling would turn into some “spooky apparition” was fucking pointless. His life was not the fucking Babadook, if anything it was shaping up to be more like the Ring. Man, that blew, what a fucking snoozefest. Maybe his life could be a porn parody of the Ring at least. _You’re gonna cum in 7 days or some shit like that._ Yeah that was more his speed. The likelihood of this horror fest turning erotica seemed pretty slim though. Waylon had been in a relationship with a girl before he kicked the bucket, and even if he had been on the Bi-Train with Miles, he’d only had contact with the man over the phone or in dreams. Although phone sex and wet dreams were both possibilities.. 

_Woah. Slow your roll there cowboy,_ Miles thought to himself, _Why the fuck would you think about fucking a ghost?_ It really had been too long since he’d gotten any, and apparently being sleep deprived and mildly traumatized made him horny. Who knew. 

He got up and made breakfast, which happened to be black coffee, and his phone chimed. It was a message from Chris. 

Chris: rise and shine motherfucker its your supposed best friend that you haven't talked to in half a week 

Miles rolled his eyes and continued to drink his coffee. He was too tired for human interaction at the moment.

Chris: what, a guy helps you move and then you disappear on him, not nice Miles not nice. I have feelings you know, and you hurt one of them 

__

__

Chris: that’s saying something, ive only got 3 

Damn that fucker’s persistence.

Chris: miles, wake up 

__

__

Chris: Upshur its time to get up(shur)

Miles sighed in annoyance and caved.

Miles: What the fuck do you want?

Chris: he lives!!!

Chris: we’re hanging tonight

Miles: What, not even gonna ask if I have plans?

Chris: don’t care, I don’t have plans and for some reason I want your company

Chris: god knows why

Miles: I’m an awesome motherfucker, and you’re insatiable for my heartwarming demeanor and boyish charm.

Chris: i’m vomiting upshur

Miles: You texted me.

Chris: and as per usual when trying to talk to you, i am filled with regret

Chris: you free around 5

Miles: Make it 6, I got a Thing at 4.

Chris: a Thing?

Miles: Yes. A Thing.

Chris: is it a Thing involving your dick because that is not suitable to blow your best friend off for

Miles: No it’s a research thing. And that is a perfectly good reason to blow off your best friend. Or blow your best friend. Either really.

Chris: how does bros before hoes apply when your bro _is_ the hoe?

Miles: Truly a question for the ages. You can come over at 6.

Chris: see you then fuckshur 

Miles put his phone in his pocket and continued on with his day. He could barely stay focused. The minutes dragged as the time inched closer and closer to 4 p.m. Finally around 2, Miles resigned himself to being unable to work and went to meet Blake early. When he got to the cafe he ordered a coffee, because he was dead fuck tired, and a muffin, because muffins are goddamned delicious, and went and sat at a corner table. 

Miles cursed himself for thinking that waiting at the cafe would be any better than waiting at home. The minutes ticked by just as fucking slowly. Oh well, at least he could people watch. He wondered what exactly he’d wanted from Blake. He’d spent a good deal of time over the past few days dedicated to anticipating what he may learn from the man, and how he’d respond. He considered that Blake may deny that anything weird had been going on at all--that was unlikely seeing as if that were the case Miles doubted Blake would have agreed to meet him in the first place. There was also a change that Blake had a reasonable-non-ghost explanation for the things that had been happening. But that was mostly wishful fucking thinking. No, Miles supposed the best he could hope for was that Blake did know about the ghost situation and that he could- fuck he didn’t know, help? If Blake moved out then Miles doubted he had a solution to the ghost problem, but maybe he knew more about Waylon, or more about ghosts, or something-

“Are you Miles Upshur?” A tall man with short scruffy black hair and glasses asked. Ah, this must be Blake.

“Sure am, you Blake?” Miles asked, gesturing for him to sit down. Blake nodded. Miles noticed he was a little fidgety, nervous almost. Made sense, he supposed, given their situation. Miles leaned back more in his seat and fixed Blake with an appraising look for a minute. When the other man swallowed, Miles grinned, “So I wanted to talk to you about your old apartment.”

“Oh, uh yeah? It giving you any trouble?” Blake’s hands continued to fidget in his lap.

“Something like that. You notice anything weird when you live there?” Miles asked, arching an eyebrow.

Blake hesitated before nodding, “Yeah, I mean, I guess things were a little weird, but nothing too bad.”

“Why’d you move out then?” Miles asked.

“Oh.” Got him, “Well, uh, you know, I had reasons.”

“I’m sure you did.” Miles tried to turn his grin into something a little more comforting, but he just didn’t have it in him. “Look, I’m not gonna call you batshit fucking nutso, I’m not here to laugh at you or post about you on some fanatic paranormal internet forum where the bloggers would love nothing more than to rip your pretty little ass apart with their questions and accusations,” He may have had personal experience with that one, “I just want to know what’s going on in my damn apartment.” Blake swallowed, and Miles continued, “Think you can help me out with that? That’s why you’re here right?”

“Uh, right. Fuck, sorry.” Blake stuttered, “It’s just a little weird to talk about, you know?”

“I do know. Honestly I’m a little surprised you wanted to have this conversation in person.”

“Talking online isn’t safe.” Blake said defensively. Miles barked out a laugh.

“Holy shit, are you one of those crazy conspiracy theorists who never put anything out in the world wide web for fear that some government agency is going to use it against them?” Miles supposed he didn’t have a lot of room to talk as far as conspiracy theories went, but at least he wasn’t afraid of fucking gmail.

“No! God that’s not it, it’s just,” Blake paused, “That might be getting ahead of ourselves. How about I just tell you what I saw?”

“Alright.” Miles said.

“Okay,” Blake started, “Okay, so I moved in and everything was good at first. I knew about the murder,” Blake paused, eyes wide, “Wait you do know about the murder right?”

“Yeah, I know about the murder.” Miles rolled his eyes.

“Okay good, so I knew about the murder, I asked because that was a pretty good place considering it’s price. I do camerawork y’know so I’m not like rolling in money so finding a place like that was a pretty sweet scor-”

“I don’t care, Langermann.”

Blake blinked, “Oh, uh right.” He laughed, “Sorry. Anyway, there were some strange things happening. Cabinets opening, the shower temperature being inconsistent, some weird stuff going on with my camera. Make a mental bookmark we’re coming back to that.” Blake said, pointing a finger at Miles chest. Miles was deeply regretting his decision to gather information from a man who just used the phrase ‘mental bookmark’. What a fucking nerd. “And y’know I’ve dabbled in paranormal sciences, avid Goosebumps reader growing up y’know?” _Ding ding ding, paranormal nut alert,_ Miles thought to himself, _un-fucking-believable luck man._ “So I took one look at that and I decided ‘Blake, you’re haunted. It’s time to strip off the weenie shorts and strap on the proton pack cuz you got a ghost to deal with’.”

“Proton pack?” Miles quirked an eyebrow.

“Ghostbusters. But you lost all right to judge me when you pointed out proton pack but not weenie shorts.” Blake fired back.

“Alright, touché.” Miles conceded, smiling.

“So I decide to Science Seance this shit, and I decide to start with my EMF, and this is when I’m gonna ask you to turn back to that mental bookmark, Mr. Upshur, because things are about to get wild.” Blake leaned forwards, “So I turn the thing on, ask a few preliminary questions, and I just get static. That’s not too weird, it’s hard to get responses from these things. Then suddenly it’s like a surge hit, and there’s a huge static crack so loud that it hurt my ears. And in case you’re not familiar-”

“No, I can’t say I’m familiar with this geek gear.”

“Don’t insult me while I’m helping you. But _anyway_ EMFs are not very loud, and this static crack was the loudest sound I’ve ever heard from this thing. That is, until a few seconds later where a voice loud and clear as day introduces himself as Waylon Park and asks for help.” Blake said, face grave.

“So you talked to him?” Miles leaned forward, “You could communicate?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it communicating. I asked it another question and the static just got worse and then it’s like he was talking but I couldn’t hear, the sound was too distorted, like when someone talks too close to a mic. Then,” Blake paused, and took a deep breath, “It lit itself on fire.”

Miles blinked, “I’m sorry what?”

“My EMF reader burst into flames in the middle of my fucking living room.” Blake said, “I couldn't fucking believe it. But the EMF wasn’t the only piece of equipment that acted weird. My camera would turn on and off all the time and start random recordings. My laptop would open to pages I’ve never been to before, the time would be wrong, the battery would drain and fill at random. and one day the screen was cracked clean in half. My last week there, I got texts and emails from a guy who’s supposed to be _dead_. This ghost is mega linked to technology.”

Miles nodded, staring out the window “Makes sense, he was a software engineer.” Miles brought his gaze back to Blake, “Is that why you wanted to meet in person? Worried you might get ghost hacked?”

“Yeah, honestly.” Blake admitted, “It’s not that ridiculous, okay? The guy was murdered, not to mention his junk was cut off. If that happened to me there’s about a zero percent change I don’t come back as a vengeful spirit.”

Miles shook his head. Waylon didn’t seem vengeful just, lost. Like he needed help. “Do you know how to get him to,” _Fuck,_ Miles thought to himself, _How to say this without sounding stupid,_ “Pass on?” _Mission: Failed. Outcome: You sound like a dumb fuck._

“I don’t know. I was going to try,” Blake said, “But then shit just started escalating and I couldn’t get him to fucking talk to me so I kinda...” He trailed off and shrugged.

“Gave up?” Miles finished.

“Yeah,” Blake conceded, “Gave up. But don’t get all judgey on me okay, he wasn’t my responsibility, and he’s not yours either. My advice? You-”

“Didn’t ask for your advice.” Miles interjected.

“Ahem, _my advice_ \--either ignore him, or move out. The latter’s probably a better option.” Blake leaned back, the intense part of the conversation seeming to be over, “But do not engage. I repeat: do not engage.”

Miles pretending to mull that over for a moment before shaking his head, “Yeah, no dice there. I’m not gonna let some ghost be my roomie without even paying rent, that’d be ridiculous.” Not to mention he was going to figure out more about this Waylon guy, and it would be much easier to do that if he _could_ engage. Miles wasn’t the type to just drop something.

Blake mumbled something under his breath before shaking his head, “Alright,” he sighed, “I think you’re an idiot but alright.”

“...Alright?”

“I can show you how to talk to him.” Blake said. And that had Miles attention. 

Miles left the cafe twenty minutes later with a spring in his step. His pocket buzzed and he fished out his phone. Chris had texted, perfect.

Chris: we still on for tonight? 

__

__

Miles: Yes. Could you pick something up for me on your way over?

Chris: maybe

Miles: I need a Ouija board.

Chris: ...

Chris: miles wtf im not buying you a ouija board

Miles: Of course not, I’ll pay you back

Chris: i can’t believe you’re making me touch The Devil’s Candyland. you’re a bad friend upshur

Miles: the only link this board will have to the devil will be moi (bc of my devilishly good looks)

Chris: vomit, Upshur. i am vomiting all over

Miles: Just get me the damn board or I’ll lock you out of my apartment.

Chris: rude bitch, but fine.

Chris: is this because I said you were haunted??

Miles: Yes. Yes it is. I’ll see you at 6. 

Miles smiled to himself in satisfaction. Tonight was the night, he was going to have a proper conversation with Waylon Park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so next update is when we'll finally get a proper conversation with waylon!! i appreciate your patience i know it's taken twelve years. as always feedback is my lifeblood, and have a banging day you groovy cats


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this took so long, I had a family trip this weekend and didn't have time to write. Updates should go back to being every few days now though!! Also, don't use this fic as any indication of how to use ouija boards. its all wrong. enjoy!!

Miles felt like an idiot. He was sitting cross legged on the carpet, hands on the planchette, with Chris across from him. It made Miles feel a little better about the whole situation, because as ridiculous as he felt he definitely didn’t look as ridiculous as Chris, with all his hulking mass sitting like a kindergartener, his thick fingers balanced strangely delicately on the planchette.

“I feel stupid,” Chris said. Good to see the feeling was mutual.

“This isn’t stupid. This is research,” Miles defended.

“Oh yeah, a top notch research tool purchased in the toy section of our local Walmart. I’m impressed by your professionalism, Upshur.” Chris shifted uncomfortably.

“Hey if you wanted professional you could have bought it at Target, I didn’t make you go to Walmart.”

“That is so not the point, Upshur.” Chris sighed, “What are we supposed to be doing anyway?”

Miles smiled, “Well, we need to designate a medium to ask the questions, which obviously will be me. We start with the planchette on G.” He wiggled his fingers, moving the planchette back and forth across the letter, “As we are now. And then we,” he paused, brow furrowing.

“Oh god, please tell me you know what you’re doing?” Chris asked, concerned.

“Of course I do.”

“Where’d you learn this shit?” Chris demanded, “Do not say the Ouija movie trilogy or I will kill you.”

“No of course not. I talked to someone who’s into this stuff, and for stuff I didn’t know I...” Miles trailed off.

“What was that?”

“I looked the rest up on WikiHow.” They two stared at each other for a moment. Chris looking shellshocked, Miles arching a brow in challenge.

“Alright.” Chris broke the stare down.

“Alright?” Miles asked.

“Yup. Alright. I’m out,” Chris went to stand.

“Don’t you dare take your hand off that triangle!” Miles ordered.

“You don’t even know what it’s called! We’re gonna die!”

“Stop being a bitch, bitch.” Miles sighed, “Look this probably won’t even work, just let me ask questions, then you can leave,” he almost pleaded. Almost.

Chris hesitated for a moment before rolling his eyes and sighing, “Fine. Go on.”

“Thank you. So uh,” Miles cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure how to start this. Neither Blake nor the WikiHow gods had been too specific, just that he needed an opening or opening ritual. Oh well, Miles was nothing if not an excellent bullshitter, he’d just make this shit up on the fly. “Hey, how’s it going spirit world. I, Miles Upshur and my uh,” He looked to Chris, “Associate Chris Walker-”

“Don’t use my name!” Chris demanded.

“Why not? Afraid the big scary ghost will sign you up for unwanted mailing lists?” Miles smirked before continuing, “We ask to commune with you or some bullshit like that. Uh, please?” Did that sound too forced? Probably. He heard Chris scoff at him and Miles shot back a glare before clearing his throat again, “Okay. First question,” Miles paused. “Is anybody there?”

“Are you shitting me?” Chris interjected.

“Shut up, asshole, that’s the first question.” Miles stared down at the board, at his and Chris’s fingers placed precariously on the planchette. He waited a few seconds, then minutes, with no movement. “Knock knock, anyone home?” He tried again.

“I knew this was stupid.” Chris complained.

Miles shook his head, “Give it a chance to work, maybe he didn’t hear.”

“He?” Oh shit. “When did you decide it was a dude?” Had Miles forgotten to run down the whole ‘my-ghost-is-a-murder-victim’ ordeal. Fuck. Did Miles even want Chris to know? It was fucking stupid, but in a weird way he didn’t want to tell Chris that he knew who Waylon was. He knew Chris would flip his shit even more than he was already. Besides, he felt a strange urge to protect Waylon somehow. Even though he was already dead. Whatever, Miles wasn’t going to look too far into it. 

“I just picked a pronoun Walker, calm your massive tits.” Miles defended. Chris rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut and his fingers on the planchette. The two sat in silence before Miles cleared his throat to ask again, “Is anyone here?” Silence. “Can you give us a sign?” Chris snorted but Miles ignored him. “Did you die in this apartment?” The silence stretched on with no response. Miles fired off a few more questions, but after fifteen minutes with no movement of the planchette, Miles sighed. “I guess nobody’s home.”

“Wow, real big shocker there Upshur.” Chris rolled his eyes.

“Oh shut up, Walker.” Miles sighed again. He was really hoping this would have worked, but he supposed it made sense. It was fucking idiotic to expect to talk to a ghost at all, nonetheless with a Ouija board purchased at Walmart. “Alright I guess we’ll close her out.” He moved the planchette to Goodbye, “Thank you for talking to us-”

“No one talked.”

“Do you wanna get possessed, asshole? No? Then shut up.” Chris sighed and Miles continued, “Thank you for speaking with us, goodbye.” He took his fingers off the planchette and Chris followed suit.

“Well, that was a weird and disappointing hangout. Although I guess I should expect nothing less from you.” Chris said. Miles nodded, not really listening. If this didn’t work, how was he going to talk to Waylon? Maybe he could ask Blake for another method. God damn, why hadn’t he asked for his number? That would have gotten him a faster answer. Maybe he could try an EMF like Blake did. It hadn’t worked too well for him, but at least he’d gotten some sort of respons- “Upshur? Earth to Upshur?”

“Hmm?” Miles looked up.

“Alright, well you’re preoccupied, so I’ll leave you to your ghost bullshit.” Chris stood and walked to the door. “You owe me a normal, not paranormal hangout soon fucker.”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” Miles answered, mind still on how he was going to communicate with Waylon.

“Goodnight Ms. Deetz.” Chris called.

“What?”

“Winona Ryder’s character in Beetlejuice, obviously.”

“I think you’re running out of ghost movies, bro.” Miles smiled. Chris flipped him off and walked out the door, leaving Miles alone in his apartment. 

Miles stared at the board for a long while after Chris left. “You know I can’t help you if you won’t fucking talk to me.” Miles shook his head, “I don’t know why I even care. I don’t have to help you or anything, you certainly aren’t being cooperative.” It didn’t matter if his ghost was cooperating or not. Miles had a savior complex a mile wide, and apparently it didn’t just extend to the living. “Look, I want to fucking help you, but there’s only so much I can do on my own. Throw me a bone, give me a sign, just something.”

The planchette jumped on the board.

“Holy fuck!” Miles jerked back, eyes wide. The planchette moved again, more slowly this time, and Miles leaned forward. “Fuck fuck fuck. Okay.” This was happening. This was really happening. A ghost was fucking talking to him, or at least, a fucking ghost was moving a fucking triangle on a fucking spirit board. From what he could tell, it was just moving on the board, not pausing on any specific letters. 

Miles took a deep breath and rested his fingers on his planchette. It stilled against his fingers. He still felt movement though, a light pressure like something was vibrating against his fingertips. “Is anyone here?” The planchette continued to quake lightly, but didn’t move. Miles sighed in annoyance, but the sigh turned into a gasp as it moved up to the Yes. 

“Hooooly fuck. Alright. Hello. I’m Miles.” _He probably doesn’t care asshole, skip the introductions and get to the questions_ , Miles thought to himself. “Who are you?” 

The planchette didn’t move and Miles took a deep breath, “Okay, not feeling too chatty. We’ll try something else. Are you Waylon Park?” The planchette circled off the yes before returning to it. 

Yes, he was talking to Waylon. “Fucking score, Chris can eat shit.” The planchette began moving again. “R-U-D-E, oh really, I’m being chastised by a fucking ghost?” 

The planchette moved up to Yes. “Fan-fucking-tastic.” Miles sighed, racking his brain for everything he wanted to ask before Waylon fizzled out. 

Was that something that happened? Blake had told him that communicating with the living world took a lot of energy, and generally it was hard for spirits to maintain for sustained periods of time until they built up a tolerance for it. Miles wondered how long he’d have to talk to Waylon. “What are you doing here?”

The planchette spelled out I-D-K. “Alright that’s real helpful.” The planchette jerked around more quickly.

I-F I K-N-E-W I W-O-U-L-D-N-T N-E-E-D Y-O-U

Miles bit back a smile, that was the longest answer he’d gotten so far. “No need to sass me mister, I’m trying to help you.” 

T-H-E-N H-E-L-P M-E

“I don’t know how, alright? I’m working on it. Is there anything you can tell me?”

The planchette jerked to No, and Miles could almost feel the eyeroll. Could ghosts roll their eyes? Miles had a feeling this one could.

“Alright, I get it, I need to ask specific questions.”

D-U-H

“You’re lucky I enjoy a little bite otherwise I’d pop my fingers right off this board and leave you in spiritual time-out.” Miles said, smiling.

I-D H-A-U-N-T Y-O-U

“You already are, genius, what else you got?” The planchette remained stationary for a moment.

I-D H-A-U-N-T Y-O-U H-A-R-D-E-R

Miles snorted, his ghost was a fucking nerd, “Yeah right-” the planchette suddenly jerked.

T-I-M-E

“Right, right sorry.” Miles thanked his lucky stars that subtly and social convention had never been a big concern of his, because he didn’t have time to lead into this gently. “Okay, I know this isn’t gonna be fun but I’ll cut to the chase.” He took a deep breath, “Do you know who killed you?” 

The planchette went very still under his fingers. Then, it slowly moved up to No. 

Miles breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to repress a scoff of disbelief, “Alright, do you know anything about how you died, anything that could be helpful?” 

The planchette started jerking more and more insistently toward No. 

“Look, I know this can’t be fun to talk about, but if you don’t give me something I can’t help you.” 

The planchette just kept circling to No, No, No, No. 

“You have to know something, Park, or remember something about when you died.” Miles frustration crept into his voice, “Try to remember something, what did the guy look like? Why’d he kill you? Did he say anything? Something?”

The planchette jerked from beneath his fingers, off the board and across the room. He darted to go retrieve it, but as he placed it back on the board, he found that it was still. “Waylon?” Nothing, no more moving, or slight shaking under his fingers. Nothing. 

“Fuck” Miles took his fingers off the planchette and leaned back. He knew Waylon had to have known something. Unless he couldn’t remember when he died? But that didn’t seem right, if it was true he didn’t remember, Miles doubted he would have flipped out like he had. Miles raked a hand through his hair, how was he supposed to help this fucker if he wouldn’t tell him anything? Then again, even if Waylon could tell Miles something, Miles wasn’t sure how he could help him either. He just felt like he had to. He stood up suddenly, kicking the board a bit in spite. God, he was frustrated.

“Look,” Miles began, “I know you don’t want to talk about this. If I was fucking murdered I probably wouldn’t want to walk down fucking memory lane either.” Miles was struck by how stupid he sounded, pep talking to a seemingly empty room. He pressed on. “But I need something to go on if you want me to help you, so just _give me something_.” Miles waited, no flickering lights, opening cupboards, no nothing. Just the room, silent and empty except for him. “Alright, guess I’ll just go fuck myself then.” He felt like he was going crazy. He decided to take a shower to destress then just go to bed. Maybe he could try something else in the morning. Or maybe, he could use his fucking brain and just give up on this damn ghost bullshit.

Standing under the stream of water, Miles took a moment to examine how much his fucking life was spiraling out of control. Fuck ghosts man, he had stuff to do and this spirit crap was fucking it up. He should be doing his regular shit. He should be getting settled into his new apartment, hanging with Chris, nosing around Murkoff and other corrupt fuckers. Not to mention making the most of his God given--ha, what a laugh--gifts to screw his way comfortably through his twenties. Instead he was spending his evenings using ouija boards and talking to moody ghosts. Moody, sassy, pitiful nerd ghosts. Who he felt a moral obligation to help. Fuck.

Getting out of the shower, he toweled off and nearly exclaimed in surprise as he went to wipe the steam off the mirror. There was something written in the steam, and Miles felt a grin break onto his face. His ghost had given him something to work with.

Scrawled messily into the steam was a name: Jeremy Blaire.


	5. Chapter 5

Jeremy Blaire. Jeremy fucking Blaire. Fucking Jeremy Mc’Fucking Blaire. This was a goddamn nightmare. 

Miles had run into that name more than a few times. The first of which being when he started looking into Murkoff when they were fucking around with being satan spawn overseas. Blaire was a slimy, scummy, skeezeball who was money hungry at best and a morally corrupt dickwad at worst--or at most accurately. _Why would Waylon be involved with a dick like Blaire?_ Miles thought to himself. It just didn’t make sense. Waylon didn’t seem like the type to get involved with fuckballs like Murkoff execs, did he? Miles had to remind himself that he knew jackshit about Waylon. For all Miles knew he was a goddamn monster. _No he’s not,_ his subconscious helpfully supplied, _you’re better at reading people than that, Upshur._ It was true, and Miles usually was fairly adept at reading people. It proved very helpful in his work, and he hoped it would pay off now.

He didn’t know why it was so important to him that Waylon was good. Despite the fact that he was mostly plagued with frustrated curiosity when confronted with thoughts of his ghost, he seemed to have developed a steadily growing fondness. So, it only follows that it would be disappointing if Waylon turned out to be a dickwad. He thought back to the ouija board incident and a corrected himself. It would be disappointing if Waylon turned out to be a morally corrupt, puppy-murdering, murkoff dickwad. Not just a normal snarky dickwad. That he could tolerate. Like even. 

But if Waylon wasn’t tied to Murkoff, then how was he tied to Blaire? Miles supposed that for all he knew, this wasn’t even the same Jeremy Blaire. Hell, that name seemed common enough, maybe this was a completely different guy. After all, Miles had read the crime scene report and he couldn’t imagine a guy like Blaire would bother to get his hands that dirty. Not that he was morally above it, but he seemed like to kind to do cleaner hits. Fuck, there was no way to know for sure unless he could ask Waylon more questions.

Steeling his resolve, he walked back into the living room and retrieved the ouija board and the planchette. Maybe Waylon would be done moping and he’d talk to him again. Miles could only hope. 

Settling his fingers on the planchette, he said, “Waylon I want to talk to you.” 

Stillness filled the room. 

“Thanks for leaving the name, but I can’t really do anything with it if I don’t have context, so if you could answer some questions that would be great.” He paused again. “Think you could do that for me?” 

Nothing. 

Miles resisted grumbling in frustration before trying again. “Alright, is the Jeremy Blaire you’re talking about the one who works for Murkoff?” 

His overhead light flickered and Miles felt a jolt of excitement. 

“Is that a yes?” He asked, but received no response. “Waylon, I can’t understand what the fuck you mean if you don’t use the damn board.” 

His lights flickered again. 

Miles took a deep breath. “Okay fine, flicker once for yes and twice for no, you got that?”  
The light didn’t flicker. 

“A response would be nice, that way I know I’m not just talking to faulty wiring?” 

Still nothing. 

“Fine, whatever. Is the Jeremy Blaire you’re talking about the one who worked for Murkoff?” 

Miles waited for a long moment, but there was no response. “Waylon?” He asked again. 

The lights started flickering, and Miles expected two flickers with a sinking feeling. However it continued past two, and suddenly his lights were flickering out of control before there was a loud pop and he was cast into darkness. Fucker had burned out his light. 

“Not cool, Waylon!” _You know what is cool?_ Miles thought to himself, _Yelling into a dark, empty room. That’s real cool._ Miles sighed, and moved his fingers onto Goodbye before standing up and putting away the board. 

He needed a better way to talk to Waylon, or at least a way to find out more information about him. Miles decided he’d try to get in contact with Blake again. He opened his laptop and typed out a quick message:

_What else can you tell me about Waylon?_

_-Upshur_

He realized he should probably change the broken bulb. He screwed in a new one and the room was once again cast in soft yellow light. Sitting back on the couch, Miles sent out a silent thank you when he saw a reply had come in from Blake.

_Not much._

_-Blake_

Well, that was helpful. Frowning, Miles shot back:

_You gotta know something Langermann, or know someone who does. You poked around this ghost shit for how long and you don’t know squat about this guy? Not buying it._

_-Upshur_

_I told you I don’t like talking about this stuff over computers._

_-Blake_

_Our lives haven’t turned into Scooby Doo and the Cyberchase yet, Langermann. And I don’t think Waylon is going to freak out if you tell me something about him. He wants help. You’d be helping._

_-Upshur_

_It is beyond weird hearing you call him just by his first name. It’s so personal. Weird._

_-Blake_

_Deflection will get you nowhere sweet Blake. Now tell me what you know about Mr. Park (Better?)_

_-Upshur_

Miles didn’t think it was better. It felt too impersonal. He figured if Waylon was haunting him, then they could stand to be a little personal.

_Not really, but okay. I was telling the truth when I said I didn’t know much about him though. I don’t know what I can really give you. Sorry._

_-Blake_

Miles leaned back against the couch. He racked his brain trying to think of something he could ask that Blake might know. Then it hit him, and he felt like a goddamn idiot for not asking it from the get go. 

_Do you know how to get in contact with Lisa?_

_-Upshur_

This response took significantly longer to arrive.

_You mean his old girlfriend?_

_-Blake_

_No shit I mean his old girlfriend. Do you know how to get in touch with her?_

_-Upshur_

About ten minutes later, Miles received another email. All it said was _Yes_ with an email address underneath. A few seconds later he got another response. 

_Please don’t tell her you got that from me_

_-Blake_

_No promises_

_-Upshur_

Miles sent back. Then he scrolled back up to stare at the email address Blake had sent. He wanted to send an email to Lisa right away, but something was stopping him. Was sending something to Waylon’s girlfriend-- _Ex girlfriend_ , his mind helpfully corrected--ex girlfriend an invasion of privacy? Did ghosts even care about privacy? Miles didn’t want to upset Waylon for some goddamn reason. _Maybe because he’s haunting you,_ his brain supplied, _that’s a pretty good reason to keep someone happy_. Miles had a feeling that wasn’t entirely the case. However, he didn’t see what other course of action he could take other than emailing Lisa. She seemed to be Waylon’s only connection in the living world. Besides, if Waylon didn’t want Miles snooping around, then he should have talked to him instead of busting out his light bulb like some deranged poltergeist. _Fuck it_ he thought as he typed out an email to Lisa.

_Hey,_

_I’m Miles Upshur. I’m an investigative journalist who’s recently become engaged with the Waylon Park case. I was wondering if you’d be willing to discuss some information with me?_

_-Miles Upshur_

And sent. Now he just had to hope that Lisa would respond soon, if at all. He waited for a while, refreshing his email every five minutes, but didn’t get any response. He figured he might as well turn in and hope she responded in the morning. Miles shut his laptop and got ready for bed.

*****

Miles was dreaming again. There were several things which alerted him to this fact. The first being the disconnect between the time on the microwave clock, which read a little before 2 a.m., and the light coming in through the window. The second was the upturned furniture in his apartment. The couch was intact, but a chair, the coffee table, and the tv were all knocked over, and many other belongings, looking almost unfamiliar, were in disarray across the apartment. It looked like his place had been mugged, or there’d been some kind of struggle. The third, and perhaps most obvious cue that Miles was dreaming, was the blonde man sitting next to him on the couch. Miles found himself sitting about a foot away from Waylon Park. 

“Are you just going to stare in shock like an idiot or are you going to talk to me?” Waylon said, arching an eyebrow. Miles felt a shock run through him. This was the first time he’d heard Waylon’s voice without it being muddled with fear or desperation. Strangely, his ghost seemed pretty damn calm.

“I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Miles answered, “I’ve been told I have a rather cute shocked face.”

“Who told you that?” Waylon asked.

“A friend.” Miles smirked.

“Hmm, are all your friends liars then?” Ouch. Miles smirk morphed into a grin.

“Aw, what are you saying Park? You don’t think I’m cute?” Miles teased.

“I think for someone who keeps insisting you need to talk to me, you’re wasting an awful lot of time.” Waylon responded. Miles had to admit that was a fair point

“Why can I talk to you like this now? Normally you can only say shit like ‘Help me, help me!’” Miles asked.

Waylon paused for a long moment not answering. Miles worried maybe he’d made the ghost uncomfortable, before he noticed that Waylon was staring ahead like he was working something out.

After a moment Miles interjected, “Now who’s wasting time?”

“I’m thinking,” Waylon shot back. “Some of us don’t find it necessary to fill up every bit of silence while they’re trying to think.”

“I’m perfect alright with silence.” Miles defended, “I’m just capable of thinking and talking at the same time.”

“Oh yes, let’s rag on the dead guy for taking a moment to process, shall we?” Waylon rolled his eyes. If Miles was capable of feeling giddy, he thinks he would have been feeling it now. He was right, his ghost did roll his eyes. Waylon shook his head, “Everything’s more confusing now. It’s all, muddled.” Regardless, Waylon pressed on.

“I don’t know why I can talk to you like this now,” Waylon began, “I just know that I can. I think-” Waylon cut himself off, pausing again. Miles made a show of giving Waylon time to think. He leaned forward on his hands and stared at him, grin on his face, “You look like you’re about to start humming the Jeopardy music.” Waylon said, annoyance crossing his face.

“Maybe I am,” Miles replied, “But do you wanna tell me what you were thinking?”

“I think you ground me somehow. It’s making it easier to talk to you.”

“I ground you?” Miles frowned, “Why?”

“You’re the first person who’s been making a consistent effort to talk to me, or help me.” Waylon shifted, “That guy you’ve been emailing, Blake? He tried but...it didn’t really work out.” Waylon scratched the back of his neck nervously. 

“How’d you know I’ve been emailing Blake?” Miles asked.

“I watch you, obviously.” Waylon answered.

“You...watch me?” Miles asked. He guessed it made sense, there wasn’t much else for a ghost to do. “So I’m like reality tv for you, basically.”

“I guess,” Waylon responded, “Thank god you’re more intelligent than the Kardashians.”

Miles grinned, the paused. “Wait, how often do you watch me? Like all the time?” _Please don’t say all the time, please don’t say all the time._

“I mean, pretty much?” Waylon answered. “There’s not anything else to do.”

Miles thought back to every embarrassing thing he could have done this past week. Not a lot, because he was Miles fucking Upshur, but he couldn’t be sure. Oh shit, had he jacked off this week? Did Waylon watch him in the shower? Miles supposed he really wouldn’t have minded either way, but shit that had to be awkward for Waylon, and he seemed awkward enough already. Glancing back at the blond Miles saw a blush rising on his cheeks and his own grin returned. Yeah, he was definitely awkward. Kind of adorably awkward. 

“You don’t have a lot of time.” Waylon’s eyes were fixed forward, on the clock. Miles followed his gaze. 2:08. “You fell asleep late.”

“Yeah, I’ve had a lot to deal with.” Miles looked at Waylon pointedly, and Waylon looked down at his lap. Miles decided that in case this opportunity didn’t come up again, he better make the most of it. 

He took a breath to steel himself for the uncomfortable questions ahead. “Did you die at 2:14?” Not the most subtle, but hey, they didn’t exactly have time for subtlety.

Waylon jerked his head toward him, surprised. Then gave a shaky nod.

“Was the Blaire you knew the one who worked for Murkoff?” Miles asked, again Waylon looked surprised, maybe that Miles knew about Murkoff, before nodding again. Miles felt dread rise in his throat. So Waylon was connected to Murkoff.

“I did consulting work for them for a few weeks.” Miles felt a twinge of relief. Waylon wasn’t associated with Murkoff heavily then, maybe he didn’t know how messed up they were. Then again, if Blaire had indeed been involved in Waylon’s death, maybe he did now. “He was my boss.” Waylon said, averting his gaze again. He seemed to be more comfortable without eye contact. _Shame,_ Miles thought, _He’s got nice eyes_.

“Was he the one who killed you?” Miles asked. Waylon flinched, closing his eyes.

Finally, after a stretch of silence, he spoke, “I don’t think so.”

“But he was involved?” Miles pressed. Waylon didn’t say anything, but he gave another shaky nod, and Miles nodded back grimly. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“It’s hard to think about,” Waylon said, “I can remember but it’s, it’s hard to communicate.” He looked over at Miles almost apologetically, still not meeting his eyes, “I think it’s getting easier, though.” He added.

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep trying.” Miles offered Waylon an encouraging smile.

“Thank you,” Waylon said, “For not just, quitting. Moving out, or, ignoring me or something. I, um, really appreciate you trying to help.”

“No problem, Park. Saving people’s asses is what I do.” Miles smirked, “Usually by trashing some corporate baddy with my incredible eloquence, but ghostbusting isn’t that much of a stretch.”

“You’re not really ghostbusting.”

“Shh Park. I’m not a massive nerd,” Waylon looked offended, so Miles assumed he was correct in the assumption that his ghost was a total dweeb, “And therefore, I don’t have an arsenal of movie references to choose from. Just take it.”

“Fine.” Waylon smiled, lifting his eyes to meet Miles’s own just for a moment before darting away again. 

“Besides, I’m not moving out. Moving in was a pain in my ass. And I couldn't just ignore you.” Miles smirked at Waylon, “You are very hard to ignore.”

Waylon smiled, and turned so he was facing Miles more directly. “Miles?” Waylon said, quietly.

“Yes?” Miles hadn’t realized how close they had gotten, but they were definitely sharing a personal space bubble. Miles swallowed.

Waylon smiled softly, blue-green eyes meeting Miles’s dark brown ones, “You’re going to wake up now.”

Miles jolted upright in bed, breathing hard. He looked around, almost like he was trying to see Waylon in the darkness. Even though Miles knew he couldn’t. Waylon was dead, and no longer corporeal except apparently in dreams. Miles checked the time on his phone and sure enough it was 2:14. He laid back down and stared at the ceiling for a moment, before he felt the urge to speak.

“Goodnight, Park.” There was no answer, but Miles found he didn't really mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna say thank you so much to everyone who's commented you make my whole life. i hope you enjoyed this chapter guys!! i dont feel super great about it, but i figured id post anyway. the next chap should be up in a few days  
> have a banging day you groovy cats


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